


Performance

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Clothing Porn, F/M, a bit of voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 08:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16260896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: Petyr likes to dress her.





	Performance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alayne_StoneColdFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/gifts).



Her hand twisted in the blue silk, the feeling of wealth suddenly unknown to her hand. She had grown so accustomed to the dull patterns and brittle fabrics of Alayne, had taken to wearing them almost as a new form of armor — unassuming where her last had been outlandish — that she had nearly forgotten what fine tailoring did to her.

_Nearly_ forgotten. It was impossible to forget such a thing entirely in the presence of Petyr Baelish. At the moment he was draped in black and grey, hues that could be drab but instead read rich and lush on him, spoke of a deft hand when it came to dress. Not that he lacked in ornament, as the rings on his fingers, the pin at his throat, suggested. He was elegant without trying, right down to him current stance. Resting back in his chair he regarded her with a cool, calculating air that Alayne knew to be far from the truth. She could feel the tightness in his body even from this distance, see the way his fingers twisted into his palms. She could almost feel it in her hair, in her laces; it made her blush.

She wondered if that improved or destroyed the look.

“Do you like it?” she asked, her voice soft. She released the gown from her grip and found herself looking down at it, brushing away the wrinkles. As she did so the guilt returned, pricking up her back and twisting about her throat. These did not look like Lysa’s things, so changed were they by the seamstress’ hand, but they  _were_. Every thread of them screamed Tully and the wealth of the Vale. In every seam she could see her aunt’s screaming face, feel the breeze from the moon door, hear the blood rushing in her veins.

Petyr had pressed them on her and she had accepted, for what was she to do? Resist a beautiful gift and risk whatever lay behind his false smiles? Deny that she wanted these things, even for these brief moments? She accepted them with a smile, eyes downcast, trying to force any and all thoughts of what this meant from her mind.

She knew without asking that she could not wear these for anyone but him. Knew that this was his own show, his own prize. Alayne felt self-conscious standing there, breathing the dead woman’s perfume, knowing the blood that lay at their feet, but also….

She glanced up at Petyr and swore she saw him shift ever so slightly. Her heart nearly stopped and something akin to pride replaced her fear. 

_What had happened to her?_

She stood up straighter. It was a queer reaction, a reaction best not thought about but she embraced it all the same. Her pulse was pounding in her throat and she was certain he could see it, for at that moment he unfolded himself from his perch and moved to better survey her.

“Exquisite,” was his final vote. When he reached her he touched the newly-slimed waist, fingers light on the threads as if he was admiring the handiwork. She wondered what he saw when he stared at her — Lysa, in her youth? Her mother? Some third, darker, woman that may be herself?

“Of course, this is just for you and me.” His words had a playful lilt to them, as if this was some game the two of them shared. His fingers traced the laces at her back and seemed to find some fault there and Alayne, for all her poise, found herself floundering.

“Something amiss?” Her voice cracked and she hated it.

“It’s nothing,” he said but still his hand remained. “Only — I’m not certain you have the proper foundation for a garment such as this.” His fingers pricked at the laces and she felt her throat tighten. She raised a hand almost instinctively in front of herself, as if that would protect her from him, as if he had not already seeped into her blood.

Slowly she felt the gown loosen, his fingers brushing against her shift, humming his disapproval. “No, this will not do at all.” He was close, far too close, and yet still he seemed to be holding himself back. This was confirmed when she stumbled just a bit and closed the self-imposed distance between them, felt the hard press of his need, and almost cried out.

Petyr grabbed her, held her there. The dress was starting to come loose about her, exposing more and more skin; more and more she was conscious of the dead woman’s hand tightening about her. Petyr joined in this grip, hands splaying against her stomach, keeping her there.

“I will have to commission some new smallclothes.” He spoke as if he were at the supper table and not presently rubbing himself against her in the most base manner. That she heard him was a miracle though the need and the shame and the fear that refused to let go of her. Alayne closed her eyes but did not push him away, the feel of silks and the smell of him sending her mind into a whirl.

“But, I will not wear them out.” She wasn’t certain when she spoke and for how long they stood there before the words left her mouth, only that when she did he moved once again. His hand gathered up the silks and pushed apart her legs and she let him, hating herself for the pride she got in this attention, for the way she looked in this gown, for the jealously her aunt must have felt.

His fingers brushed the corse of herself, outside of her small clothes and she screamed in such a way that he covered her mouth with his free hand. When he pushed farther and she moaned she could feel his body tremble with triumph.

“Oh, I think it would be worth it just for us, sweetling.” His fingers curled forward, pressing in, and she gripped the dead woman’s things.


End file.
